Skeleton Dance

But the sudden sensation of wary, quivering antennae all about him produced by these few words told him that they did not all know—in fact that none of them, apart from Beaupierre, had known—anything about it. Surprised, Gideon turned inquiringly to the director. “I thought you said. . . ?'

'Ah, I've told everyone that you would be coming here to interview them,” Beaupierre said nervously. “But it may be, now that I think of it, that perhaps I neglected to mention, ah, the exact subject matter of your, ah, interest in, mm . . .” He closed his mouth, took a sip of coffee, and apparently lost interest, gazing tranquilly out the window, an earnest, cogitative look on his face. Beaupierre had a way of doing that—simply quitting in the middle of a sentence, giving the impression that it was still going on somewhere in the ether, only not out loud. It was as if a radio had been switched off in the middle of a sentence. Sometimes he'd flip the switch back on again in the middle of another sentence, which was equally disconcerting.

There was a polite interval, apparently to permit the director to continue if he wished, which he didn't, and then Audrey filled her water glass and looked at Gideon. “Is this a serious academic work, Gideon?'

Oh boy; not a question he'd been looking forward to answering. His throat began to get a little dry and he too filled his glass from one of the carafes. “Well, not exactly, no, Audrey. It's intended for a popular audience, but I do mean to treat the subject in a serious, scholarly way.” Well, in as serious and scholarly a way as Lester would let him get away with.

'And what, may I ask,” said Emile Grize, “is the title of this popular yet scholarly book?” As it often was with Emile, it was a toss-up as to whether or not he meant to be sarcastic.

'Wrong Turns, Dead Ends, and Popular Misconceptions in the Study of Humankind,” Gideon said, figuring he was better off ignoring for the moment the less scholarly-sounding Bones to Pick part. Even so, it didn't do much to tone down the general air of mistrust. (Thank God he had held out against Lester's Bungles, Blunders and Bloopers.) Still, what could he expect? How happy could they be about dusting off a farce that had made them a public laughing stock only a few years earlier? The Tayac hoopla had even made it to the Jay Leno show for four nights running, surely a first for the field of Middle Paleolithic decorative technology.

'I do mean this to be as serious and scholarly a piece of work as I can make it,” he said truthfully. “I've been over this with my publisher a hundred times. I'm not interested in cheap laughs or in making our field look as if it's full of charlatans and fools. Scientists have made mistakes plenty of times, sure, and sometimes—but not very often—they've been plain dishonest—villains, even.'

Pru's hand flew to her heart. She gasped. “Good God, sir, surely you jest.'

'And I don't intend to cover any of that up,” Gideon went on. “But the story of almost every hoax and every mistake has a scientist as hero too, and it's the heroes that I mean to concentrate on.'

The eminent Michel Montfort had had little to say since Gideon's arrival, preferring instead to sit staring out the window in one of his well-remembered, scowling silences, tapping his fingernails on the table, making inroads into the chocolate brioches, and presumably thinking great thoughts. Now his snuffling bass broke in again.

'And who is the ‘hero’ in the saga of the Old Man of Tayac?'

Gideon hesitated. “You are, sir.'

Montfort was visibly startled. “I am! Thank you very much, no! You can leave me out of your damned book.'

'But you are.” Gideon leaned earnestly toward him. “Professor Montfort, in my view the whole structure of anthropology—of any science—depends on the moral integrity of individual scientists who put the extension of knowledge ahead of any personal stake, however great, in the outcome of research. And you did that.'

Gideon's forehead was suddenly warm. What he'd said had come across as painfully stuffy and pretentious, even to him, but it had come from the heart; Montfort was the hero of the story. Decades earlier, he had been one of the first to propound the idea of the essential humanity of the Neanderthals—their sensitivity, their intelligence, their cultural development. He had written eloquently and spoken—less eloquently but just as fervently—on the subject for two decades, presenting papers at one conference after another, eventually becoming its acknowledged spokesman. Ely Carpenter, taking up archaeology late in life, had been his student, a protege—although younger by only a few years—who whole-heartedly embraced his views and in whose subsequent success his mentor had taken enormous pride.

When Carpenter, by that time the director of the institute, had come up with those four perforated bones, Montfort had been ecstatic too. He had trumpeted the find as the long-hoped-for confirmation of his own theories and had stood shoulder to shoulder with Carpenter, zestfully fending off the doubters and the attackers.

But when evidence began mounting that the bones had actually been pilfered from a nearby museum, then doctored and ‘planted’ in the Tayac abri, the scholarly abuse (and scholars were in a class of their own when it came to abuse) rained down on Carpenter, on Montfort, and even on the blameless institute. It must have felt to Montfort as if his life's work had been made ludicrous, and yet, in the best tradition of science, he had calmly, objectively re-examined the now-discredited bones on his own and had eventually published the definitive paper, a landmark piece of scientific detective work showing exactly how the bones had been treated to make them look authentic. He had stoutly continued to maintain that Carpenter was the victim, not the perpetrator, but at the same time he had unshrinkingly established for good and all that he and his protege had been in the wrong, gullible dupes at best; his enemies had been right all the while. And that, as far as Gideon was concerned, was enough to make him a hero.

'Permit me to offer a small but significant semantic correction, Gideon,” Emile said into the silence. “I submit that what you're describing is nothing more than simple scholarly disinterestedness—commendable, certainly, but hardly heroic. Now, speaking as a—'

Trained paleopathologist, Gideon thought.

'—trained scientist,” Emile said, “I have to assume that disinterestedness is the foundation on which we—that is, all of us who call ourselves scientists—guide all of our actions. To accord it ‘heroic’ status is to make the error of implying that it is singular rather than customary and expected. I mean no disrespect, Michel.'

But Montfort had been visibly moved by Gideon's speech. He slowly massaged his forehead, one hand at each temple, and grunted something about the desirability of leaving sleeping dogs to themselves, but said that if Gideon cared to interview him about Tayac he would make himself available. That turned the tide. There was a little grumbling, but in the end, much to Gideon's relief, everyone came around and agreed to talk to him.

Once the schedule was settled, the subject turned immediately and surprisingly to the new skeleton from the abri. They had been following the story all week, they said. It had been well-covered from the start in Sud Ouest, the local newspaper, and even more so when Inspector Joly was brought in, and this